


The fire screaming through my veins

by ForErusSake



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Angst, How Do I Tag, Hurt, Loss, Siblings, Tears, Third Kinslaying
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-02
Updated: 2017-08-02
Packaged: 2018-12-10 06:33:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,769
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11686035
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ForErusSake/pseuds/ForErusSake
Summary: Sirion is burning. Maglor knows that retrieving the Silmaril is the only way to stop the fire raging inside him. But with Elwing standing on the edge of a cliff, and her two children alive somewhere, just how far is Maglor willing to go to bring an end to the fire screaming through his veins? And just how far is Maedhros willing to go to save his brother from being consumed by it?





	The fire screaming through my veins

**Author's Note:**

> This story contains some extraordinary headcanon, but I hope you'll like it nonetheless :)

  _It isn’t over, not yet._

_We haven’t lost, not yet._

He was running, chasing Elwing down seemingly endless halls and corridors, littered with corpses, occasionally slipping in puddles of blood.

Maglor’s breathing was ragged, his heart was pounding in his ears. He was burning. The Oath was screaming in his mind, clawing at his throat, crushing his chest.

She was quick. She ran and jumped and dodged around the corners, her white dress pulled up and her silken cloak, once white too, now covered in bloodstains, trailing behind her.

For all that his armour had been designed to be as light as possible, it felt like the pieces were made of lead, pulling at his limbs, wearing him down.

When he tuned out the sound of screaming and his own ragged breathing, when he drowned out the smell of smoke and blood, when he ignored the feeling of the sword in his hand and the stabbing pain in his back he could almost forget what was happening, what he had done, what he was still doing, he could almost believe that he was young again, that he was home again.

He remembered running through the corridors of his grandfather’s palace in Tirion, chasing after his younger brothers and cousins, slipping on the smooth tiles, dodging the servants hurrying to and fro.

He remembered running through the forest, on his second ever hunting trip, bow in hand, chasing a young doe. He was so caught up in the chase that he never noticed the ground sloping upwards, until it was too late. Suddenly, the ground disappeared from under his feet. He fell. He heard Maedhros screaming his name. There was a flash of pain, and then darkness.

He woke up a week later with a stabbing pain in his lower back, and the world was a blur of black, white and grey. Spinal injury, they said, very small possibility of a full recovery, not likely. Brain damage, they said, untreatable. His younger self, lying in a bed in the palace’s healing wing, didn’t care too much about the pain in his back, the healers said it was treatable. His younger self, lying in the healing wing, the lights dimmed so as not to be too bright on his eyes, was confused when a nís with long, curly hair walked in, a nís whom he didn’t recognize, until she turned around and he found himself looking at the face of his mother. The pain could be managed, he could take a drug against the pain. His colour-vision would never return. Never again would he see the bright orange-red of his mother’s hair. His younger self, lying in that bed, wept until he had no tears left.

Years of rehabilitation and he could walk again, he could run, dance, swim, but the pain was always there, and the world never showed itself to him in anything other than unnatural shades of grey.

He remembered when Fëanor enlisted Celegorm and him to help paint the frames of the windows of their home. _Yellow for the frames, red for the shutters._ He, of course, wasn’t able to distinguish one from the other. Celegorm made a rather rude comment when his older brother accidentally started painting one of the shutters yellow. Maglor retaliated in kind, resulting in Celegorm throwing his brush at him and the red paint ending up all over the wall instead of on the shutters.

Yes, he could almost believe that he was young again, that he was home again.

There were similar stains on the floor and walls of the corridors he was now racing through. Red, they had to be. This time, however, it wasn’t paint.

He wasn’t young anymore, and he certainly wasn’t home.

He was running. Around corners, up flights of stairs. He couldn’t remember what floor he was on. It didn’t matter. Elwing had the Silmaril. That mattered.

The higher up he chased her, the fewer bodies he came across. The palace had emptied out when it had become apparent that the city would not hold against the Fëanorians’ attack, when half the city had already gone up in flames. Sirion had been a city of refugees. Many women, just as many children, very few trained warriors. Many of the city’s inhabitants had tried to flee. Maglor did not know how many of them had made it out alive. He didn’t even know if his own brothers were still alive.

So he kept running, ignoring the pain in his back, the Oath seemingly burning a hole in his chest, and the taste of blood and bile at the back of his throat.

He was climbing another flight of stairs, leading up a tower. He saw Elwing disappear behind a small door. He heard the sound of a key turning in a lock.

He pounded on the door.

“Elwing, let me in, give me the Silmaril!” he growled. He barely recognized his own voice.

“Never!” she screamed back at him. She sounded desperate.

Maglor wasted no time in trying to persuade her to open the door. With a single, well-aimed kick he broke the lock and it sprang open of its own accord. It was as if someone stabbed a knife in his back, sending wave after wave of agony up his spine. He doubled over in pain, gasping for breath, resting his hand on the doorframe for support.

“Give me the jewel,” he snarled in between wheezing breaths.

“I’ll drop it,” she said, her voice shaking slightly.

Maglor’s head snapped up and his eyes went wide. He was standing in the doorway to a small room. The walls were lined with bookcases, to his right was a couch, to his left stood a writing desk, littered with pieces of paper, softly stirring in the wind. Opposite the door was a set of double doors, framed by heavy curtains, leading out onto a balcony. Beyond the balcony, a deadly drop off the cliffs. Elwing was standing by the balustrade, her dress and cloak fluttering about her thin form, the Silmaril in her hand, arm extended.

“Elwing, don’t,” he said, his hoarse voice as soft as it could be, and stepped forward, “give it to me, and we can end this.”

Elwing stepped closer to the edge.

“Stay where you are!” she yelled at him, waving her arm as if she was going to throw the silmaril off the cliff.

“Elwing, please,” he begged, “think of your people.”

Her gaunt face contorted into a snarl.

“Have you been outside, Fëanorion? Have you seen the city? Have you seen what _you_ have done to it? I have no people anymore!”

Maglor bit his lip. He looked at her, she looked desperate, frantic, she was terrified. He was just as desperate, if not more. He looked around. Only then did he notice the stuffed toys on the floor.

“Think then of your sons, Elwing,” he said. He knew it was a low blow, but he was out of options. He had nothing to bargain with. He hadn’t known the lady Elwing had children. He didn’t know why he had said “sons”, maybe she had a daughter. He knew he’d got it right when he saw the look of horror on Elwing’s face.

“Where are my sons, what have you done to them?” she asked. He could see that she was starting to panic.

“I do not know, I haven’t seen them.” He responded, his throat was so dry it hurt to speak. His eyes kept being drawn to the Silmaril. The Oath was burning in his chest more violently than ever, he blinked to keep the tears from his eyes.

“I find that hard to believe, Fëanorion,” she snarled, her voice shaking, “how do I know you haven’t killed them?”

She violently shook the hand holding the silmaril. Threatening him.

Black dots clouded his vision. It was as if a hand was squeezing his throat.

_If she drops it, everything will be for naught._

“I would never kill a child,” he said, his voice shaking slightly.

“Then what do you call what you did to my brothers?” she howled, her face contorted into a feral snarl as her eyes filled up with tears.

He flinched. It had been Celegorm’s people who left Elured and Elurín, so he’d later heard had been their names, in the woods to die. They had been severely punished for it, but Elwing didn’t know that, and if she _had_ known, she probably wouldn’t care.

“Elwing, please don’t,” he begged and stepped forward as she pushed herself up to sit on the balustrade.

“Stay back, Fëanorion, and put down your weapon, or I _will_ drop it,” she said, fingers flexing around the Silmaril. Maglor stood still, his sword dropping to the floor with a hollow ringing sound.

He looked at her. Sitting there, silmaril in hand, cradled to her chest, casting shadows on her pale, gaunt face, cloak and dress flaring out around her wan, skeletal figure, she looked just like a ghost. Looking at her, Maglor realised he and his brothers were not the only ones who had felt the jewels’ devastating fire.

“Elwing, give me the Silmaril, bring an end to your suffering,” he said softly, “I know what it does to you, how it hurts you look at it, but still you can’t stop looking, how it invades your dreams, how you can’t stop thinking of it, even when you are awake, how you know that it’s killing you, and you want it even more for the pain that it brings you. Please.”

She laughed. It was a hollow sound. She arched her back, raising her eyes to look at the sky, arms spread out like a bird that was about to take flight, tears streaming down her face. He stepped forward again, thinking she was going to fall, but she stayed him with a violent jerk of her arm. She was laughing almost hysterically.

Sitting there, with her dark hair blown out around her, she reminded him a startling lot of himself.

He must have looked just like her, standing on the quay at Alqualondë, bloodied sword in hand, dead bodies strewn around him, tossed around like lifeless dolls, screaming and laughing and crying hysterically at the sky as tears ran down his cheeks.

He remembered the stunned faces of the sailors as he raised not his sword at them in battle, but a Song, lifting them of the ground and crushing their heads on the stone when he flung them away.

He remembered the cries of surprise as one of his Songs cut through the air like a knife and tore the ground away from under the hapless sailors’ feet.

He remembered the gurgling screams of the Teleri as he brought them to their knees with his Songs, clawing at their own throats, blood streaming from their eyes and noses as their spines were shattered and their internal organs were shredded to pieces.

Alqualondë had been the first time he had ever raised his voice in battle. He had sworn it would be the last.

Standing on the deck of one of the stolen swanships, looking back at the city and the fire raging through it, consuming it, until there was nothing left of it but ashes, he had sworn that he would never hurt anyone again.

When he woke up screaming, a day later, with images of fire and blood and death on his mind, he swore that he’d never kill anyone again, ever.

When he first set foot in the Outer Lands, hoping that not being on the ships anymore would help him forget the horrible things he’d done, he swore that he would never raise his voice in battle, that he would never sing a Song of Power, that he would never again let his voice betray him, like it had at Alqualondë.

He had sworn oath after oath after oath to himself in the dark, when the pain and despair and fear became too much for him to bear, and he had broken them all.

He had hurt so many people, physically, mentally, verbally, more people than he could count, and he remembered the expressions of pain on their faces as clearly as he remembered the faces of his own brothers.

He had killed, Elves and Men and Orcs, and he had made no distinction between the three.

He had raised his voice in battle, if only once, to protect his people from the dragons invading their home, to give them a chance to retreat, but still, he’d broken his oath.

He had sung a Song of Power, and it was the best piece he’d ever composed, but still, he’d broken his oath.

He’d broken all the oaths he’d ever given, except for One.

This One, he couldn’t break.

He looked at Elwing, sitting on the balustrade, a crazed smile on her face, clutching the Silmaril to her chest with her bony hands, swinging her legs back and forth like an elfling, and he knew that if she kept the Silmaril, she would lose herself like they had. She would lose her mind as surely as his father had lost his. The Silmarils had forced them all into insanity, Fëanor, Morgoth, Thingol, his brothers, all of them.

He wondered, looking at the Lady of Sirion, the princess of Doriath-that-was, if she looked much like her grandmother.

He wondered if fair Lúthien, whom he’d never had the chance to meet, had had the same wild, curly, dark hair, skin like thin porcelain, stretched as to be almost see-through, and wan, skeletal figure, or if that was just the fire of the Silmaril, taking a hold of her, killing her slowly, changing her, like it had changed his father.

He wondered if brave, gentle Tinúviel had felt the Silmaril’s fire burning through her veins just as strongly as everyone else, and if in the end, she, too, had succumbed to the madness. Or if she had been stronger even than the stories told, and she had been able to resist the flames, to withstand the burning of it, set in the necklace wrapped tightly around her throat, only barely lose enough not to choke her.

He wondered if there was anyone in the world strong enough to resist.

“Elwing, please,” he whispered, “give it to me. Do not make the same mistake I and my brothers have.” He took a step forward. Elwing stared at him, brow furrowed in anger, the warning clear in her eyes.

“You don’t deserve it,” she snarled, pushing herself up so she was crouched on the balustrade.

“No,” he responded, his voice cracking, “I don’t, but please, give it to me, give it to me so I can fulfil my Oath.” She looked at him dispassionately.

“Never,” she said, voice unwavering.

“I beg you, Elwing, my lady, princess, give me the jewel, bring an end to my suffering, have mercy.” Elwing chuckled humourlessly.

“You murdered my brothers,” she spat, “my father, my mother, you used your sword to brutally slaughter my people, not once, but twice, and now you expect me to end _your_ suffering, when you are the sole cause of _mine_?” She rose to her feet, balancing precariously on the balustrade, above the deadly drop into waves below.

“I should kill you, Fëanorion,” she snarled, her voice laced with disgust, “but death would be a kindness you do not deserve. So instead I will take from you your only chance at fulfilling your Oath. May it burn you alive like the dragonfire burned your land, kinslayer! ” She threw her head back, laughing hysterically, tears streaming down her face.

“Elwing, don’t do this, think of your children,” he growled, rushing forward.

Elwing’s eyes went wide in surprise and fear, and for a second she forgot about the abyss behind her. She tried to step back, but her foot met empty air. She opened her mouth to scream, but no sound came out.

She fell.

Maglor screamed, rushing out onto the balcony, towards the balustrade. He faintly thought he heard the sound of movement behind him, of tiny children’s voices calling out their mother’s name, but he dismissed the thought from his mind.

He could only see Elwing, falling, her curly hair and cloak and dress fluttering about her, grey, just like his mother’s that fateful day when she came to see him in the healing wing. All of a sudden, it wasn’t Elwing who was falling, but Nerdanel.

“Ammë!” he screamed, extending his arm, as if he could snatch her out of the air and keep her from hitting the ocean below, snapping her spine.

His voice carried through the air, resonating with the wind. For an instant, Maglor thought of the sailors in Alqualondë, and the dragons at the Gap. His screaming turned into a single, clear, tone. He raised his voice and with it, the ocean rose up, rushing towards the falling princess, until it caught her, almost gently, and then she was gone.

Maglor stood, stunned into immobility, until he heard the sound of sobbing. When he turned around he found himself looking at two small children. He thought of the toys lying about in the small room and closed his eyes.

_You should’ve known._

It was too much.

He collapsed to the floor, covered his face with his gloved, bloodied hands, and wept.

_It’s over._

_We’ve lost._

He kept sitting there, with his back resting against the balustrade, lost in misery, until he felt a touch on his shoulder.

“Go away,” he whispered, his voice hoarse from crying, thinking it was Maedhros, coming to tell him the city had been burned to ashes, like Alqualondë. Instead, he heard a small, high-pitched voice.

“Why are you sad? You called for your nana, did you lose your naneth?” Maglor looked up, and found himself staring at one of the children. The boy’s large eyes were sad and stared back at him intently.

“We lost ours, too, you see? She fell,” the child continued.

“Elrond, come back here, please, he’s scary,” another high-pitched voice whispered.

Only then did Maglor notice the other child, standing behind his brother, a few paces away.

“He’s not scary, Elros, he’s crying, how can he be scary?” the first child, Elrond, responded.

Maglor almost smiled at the child’s reasoning.

“There’s no need to be afraid, I won’t hurt you,” he whispered, attempting to sound reassuring, and then he added:

“I didn’t lose my mother, she did not fall. She lost me, I fell.”

Suddenly, the child threw himself into his arms, sobbing uncontrollably. He tensed up and his eyes went wide in surprise, but then instinct took over and he wrapped his arms around the boy, gently rocking him, crooning and old lullaby. Slowly, the second child, Elros, approached and sat down next to him, putting a comforting hand on his brother’s arm as tears ran down his own cheeks. Automatically, Maglor found himself leaning in, wrapping an arm around him. The child stiffened at first, but soon he relaxed into Maglor’s embrace.

He did not know how long he sat there, the children in his arms, but after some time, Elros looked up and cried out:

“Look, what’s that!”

Maglor jumped to his feet, holding the children securely in his arms. His eyes went wide in surprise. It was a bird, but not just any bird.

“The Silmaril,” he whispered, his voice full of both awe and disgust. He felt the fire of the Oath flaring up in his chest but he violently squashed it. His eyes filled up with fresh tears. The children looked at him in confusion.

“That’s your naneth,” he continued. Elros shook his head.

“Our nana isn’t a bird,” he responded, confusion plainly written on his face.

“She’s got the Silmaril, it has to be her,” Maglor said, staring at the retreating form of the bird.

“Why is she flying away? Where is she going?” Elrond exclaimed.

“She going to find your adar,” Maglor whispered in response, watching as the bird disappeared from view. He gently lowered the children to the ground. Elrond looked at him intently.

“If nana and ada are gone, will you be our new ada?”

The question took him by surprise. He remembered a time long ago, in Valinor, under the light of the Trees, when a different set of twins had asked him the same question, albeit under different circumstances.

_They are not Ambarussa._

“I would gladly be your ada.”

He wrapped his arms around the children again, and closed his eyes. When he reopened them, he found himself staring at his brother, standing in the doorway.

“What are you going to do with them?” Maedhros asked, looking at his brother in concern. He saw the desperation, the pleading in his brother’s eyes, and knew that these two children guarded the last bit of Maglor’s sanity. With them there, he wouldn’t run off with a knife in the dark, he wouldn’t lock himself in his room with every bottle of wine he could find, he wouldn’t stand on the walls for hours on end, staring down into the gaping maw of death, so close, yet so far away.

If these children could save his brother from the fire screaming through his veins, from madness and from death, if only for a little longer, then it was worth it.

“We’ll take them with us,” Maglor responded, his voice pleading, “we’ll be a family again, Pityo will like having two children to look after.”

Maedhros looked at his brother, who was staring back at him. He looked at Maglor and in his brother’s eyes he saw a glimmer of hope.

Maedhros smiled his consent at his brother and Maglor smiled back, urging the children to go greet their ‘uncle Maedhros’. He saw that spark of hope kindle a small fire in his brother’s eyes, not a raging, destructive fire, like the Oath, but a warm, healing fire.

Maedhros Fëanorion closed his eyes, the hopeful face of his brother filling up his mind. He took the children in his embrace, pulling them firmly against him so they couldn’t see anything.

“Pityo is dead, Káno.”

He couldn’t look. The children couldn’t look. He felt the fire burning in his own veins, the pain, the despair. He couldn’t stand to it see rekindled in Maglor’s eyes. Not when he’d just been freed of it, for a time. He kept his eyes firmly closed, but he heard it nonetheless.

He heard the sharp intake of breath, the strangled sob, and then the bloodcurdling scream.

**Author's Note:**

> There's an almost unnoticeable reference to another story of mine in here, it's called "Noldolantë", if you liked this one, you'll probably like that one, too. Reviews are always appreciated :)


End file.
